


Whumptober 2019

by keyrousse



Series: Wieśkowe historie/The Witcher stories [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No beta we fall like Crowley, Not permitted to display outside AO3, Open Ending, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-23 12:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: My set of Whumptober 2019 ficlets. Mostly canon-compliant.1. Shaky hands2. Embrace3. Dragged away (Good Omens; copied to another set of ficlets)4. Stitches5. Don't move6. Asphyxiation7. Numb





	1. Shaky hands; The Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's the first time I participate in any -tobers, it went as well as you can imagine. There's actually very little literal whump. Can't really argue with my plot bunny, though: I'm grateful it helped me come up with 25 ideas and then with only 8 full stories. ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds Ciri on the Isle of Mists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s more angsty than whump-y, but I can’t really argue with my plot bunny, sorry. Also, the first sentence is a line from the game, only I translated it from Polish as I’m too lazy to check the official English version.

“She’s cold, and lifeless. She must have died shortly before we arrived.”

Ice gripping his heart, Geralt watches the dwarves go, waiting for them to leave him alone. Even then he can’t make himself move, not immediately. It takes a few very long seconds for him to push the creaky door open with a shaking hand.

He stands by the doorway, taking the interior in.

The hut is cold and dark, but it looks lived in. There are books on the shelves, some food, a toy horse, some scrolls. A plate laid out on the table. It’s very modest, but comfortable enough for a hideout.

There was no fire in the hearth, though.

A broken jug lies by the door, as if someone threw it at the wall in frustration. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust. The dwarves must have just huddled here, waiting for someone to rescue them, not daring to move or use anything.

And there is Ciri, lying on her side on the bed by the far wall, with her back to him. Unmoving.

Geralt wills himself to step forward, towards the bed, his fingers twitching by his sides. He hopes she will hear him, wake up and turn towards him, healthy and as happy as she can be under the circumstances.

But she doesn’t.

He chokes.

When he gets there, he almost falls as he sits down by her legs.

His hand is still shaking when he puts it on her cold shoulder and turns her onto her back.

She’s completely limp. She’s not breathing. Her eyes are slightly open and glazed over.

He jumps to his feet, terrified; he stares at Ciri’s body, doesn’t want to believe what he sees.

Seven years. He saw her last seven years ago. He lived for years without a single memory of her, only knowing he was missing something, an important piece of his heart, and when he remembered her, he searched for her for months, turned every stone in three different countries. He would die for her.

And now he’s too late. She’s gone.

He staggers and falls on the bed again. He can’t look at her, can’t touch her. He can’t cry, even though he tries very hard. He just can’t. He wants to scream, to destroy this little hut, to find Avallac’h and kill him, because he was supposed to protect Ciri, and now she’s gone.

His whole body is shaking when he hugs her, rocking back and forth, holding his precious little girl as close as possible. His little girl, all grown up, dead, cold and limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a native English speaker and this thing doesn't have a beta, so please be gentle about my grammar and punctuation.


	2. Embrace; fandom: The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri wakes up on the Isle of Mists. Continuing from the previous drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less angsty, more Feelings, still no plot.

She wakes up and notices she’s sitting up. Someone’s hugging her, rocking her back and forth.

Then, she notices the smell. Leather, fire and monsters’ guts.

Seven years. Seven years passed since she’s smelt it last.

Geralt.

Her arms move to hug him back on their own accord, and she feels him flinch. They look at each other, his eyes wide and wet, like he’s been crying, and she knows they remember the same moment, so very long time ago, when they found each other after Cintra, after they had both lost hope.

“Ciri…”

“Geralt.”

They say it at the same time.

She touches his face, making sure he’s really here, wiping away a stray tear on his cheek, his face paler than usual, with more scars and wrinkles, but it’s still the face of the man she called her father, the man she was destined to, who kept running away and was still drawn back to her. The man who loved her even though everyone knew witchers don’t have feelings. It was his love that helped her survive. Even when he wasn’t with her, she knew he would want her to live.

It was his love that brought her back.

Geralt crushes her against him, and she hugs him back, because it’s been seven years, they’re both safe for the moment, it’s just two of them and they cherish the feeling of each other’s warmth.

Geralt’s shaking, she feels him struggling to compose himself. She lets go of him and looks at him again. Last time she saw him was two years ago, he was just a shell of his former self then, the one she had remembered as strong and ALIVE. She had pushed the memory of Rivia out of her mind, but when she transported him to Kaer Morhen, after she helped him run away from Wild Hunt, he looked only slightly more alive than in his dying moments. He didn’t remember her then. And she couldn’t help him with that, she had to run, knowing that at least he would be safe.

He’s here now, sitting with her, looking tired, but healthy. She knows he remembers her now, he got his life back.

She embraces him again and he melts into her touch.

She knows he needs it, but it’s as precious to her. She needs it too, to feel a slice of that old life, when she was just a little girl, in Brokilon, and then growing up among witchers. Geralt has been the most important figure in her life, now she’s got him back, this time for good. She will never let him go again.


	3. Dragged away; Good Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another introspection. Let me know when they get boring.

Aziraphale wakes up, hanging between two demons, his hands - well, more like Crowley’s hands - tied in front of him with a red rope. At the first sign that he’s conscious, his escort puts him on his feet and pushes him forward, through a dark corridor smelling of sulphur and mould. He trips, his head pounding, but he doesn’t fall.

He still has the sunglasses on, which is oddly comforting. He starts to understand why Crowley wears them all the time. He has little control over his snake eyes, so he doesn’t have to squint in the blinking lights overhead.

They really should have expected that, he thinks. Heaven and Hell wouldn’t take kindly to them averting another great war. He still remembers the look of surprise on Crowley’s - his own - face, as the demon was dragged away, wide eyed, hands bound and a tape on his mouth. He remembers the panicked need of getting him back, he remembers how he tried to crawl after the angels, to save him, but the blow to his head almost discorporated him, it would kill a normal human, so he had to focus on staying alive. Losing Crowley’s body wouldn’t do them any good.

So he walks, hours after switching their bodies he’s still unable to recreate Crowley’s swagger. He doesn’t feel like he should, even though Crowley sauntered into every danger, the picture of certainty. The body feels weird, so different, too many vertebrae in his spine, long legs, everything too loosely connected, and Aziraphale really doesn’t know how Crowley does it. How he controls it. Walking is easy enough. Hopefully, he won’t have to run.

Dread washes over him, more intense the deeper he’s lead into the corridor. He’s not sure whether it’s the general feeling of Hell, or just his situation. What would Crowley do? They were both kidnapped in broad daylight, with Death watching them. They expected some trials. Some punishment. Agnes warned them, so switching bodies was the only thing they could think of. Now they just have to see what awaits them.

Crowley would be brave, Aziraphale thinks and straightens slightly up. He stopped time in Satan’s presence. He helped convince the Antichrist to stop the Apocalypse. Crowley killed one of the Dukes of Hell to defend himself. He would be brave, no matter what. He wouldn’t beg, ask for mercy, he would take whatever they prepared for him, with a raised eyebrow and some kind of a quip.

They’ve been friends for 6000 years. It’s a long time to know each other.

Aziraphale steels himself. They will survive this and see each other again.

He’s lead into a “courtroom”. The place is as dark and mouldy as the corridor. An empty bathtub stands on the dais, a crowd of demons gathered behind the glass, four demons already waiting for him, sneers on all their faces.

There we go.

The rope bites into his wrists.

“Hi, guys. Nice place you got here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little inclined to do Crowley's side, but I need my plot bunny to cooperate.


	4. Stitches; The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is a tease while having a wound on his forehead stitched by Regis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this one. It’s more banter than whump and angst. It’s probably less funny than I think. Geralt might be a little OOC, or maybe he just has fun.

“It’s already healing rather nicely,” Regis observes as he examines the no longer bleeding, triangular flap of loose skin over Geralt’s right eyebrow, with the peak of it near the old scar on his forehead. The bloody bandages Geralt put around his head now lie on Regis’ bed in his Mère-Lachaiselounge cemetery crypt.

“Aye, but if I leave it like this, I’d get another ugly scar on my face and I have enough of them. People are already turned on or scared shitless when they see me, I’d rather not tip the balance towards the less pleasant option.”

Regis raises an eyebrow at him and goes to retrieve his medicine bag.

“Since when do you care how people react to you?” he asks as he sits down on his bed with the kit. He disinfects the needle over a candle flame, threads it, and washes the wound with a mild herbal antiseptic, using an upward move, pulling the edges of the wound closer together. He noticed herbs work better than alcohol, although for Geralt it wouldn’t matter, as wound infection happens rarely to witchers. The flap of skin is sensitive though, and herbs aren’t as harsh as rubbing alcohol. It stings less, too, or so Regis has been told by his patients.

Geralt shrugs, relaxed, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands hanging between his knees. His eyes are closed as Regis slowly works on the stitches. He doesn’t hiss when the needle pierces his skin, but that may be thanks to the herbs Regis used, as they work as a mild analgesic, too.

“Got used to people tolerating me,” Geralt confesses.

“And you prefer them being turned on than scared shitless?” Regis can’t help but ask, making a knot on the thread and cutting it with a scalpel. He doesn’t know why the offhand remark irked him, but it did.

Geralt opens his left eye and peers at Regis.

“And you sound like it bothers you,” he observes. He doesn’t flinch when Regis starts on another stitch, going along the line of the wound.

“No, I don’t.” Regis knows exactly how he sounded.

“But it does bother you.”

How observant of him.

Regis pauses, looks into Geralt’s open eye, then resumes the stitching without comment, his lips pursed. Geralt smirks.

“I’d be fine if they didn’t react in any strong way, but that would be too nice,” Geralt admits, closing his eye. “In the North it’s always been disdain; here I got the attention from the other side of the spectrum. It’s childish probably, but I wouldn’t want to lose it.”

“I see,” Regis replies slowly. He’s surprised how verbose Geralt is, how relaxed despite having a new ugly wound on his forehead - one that could end with him losing his right eye if… whatever happened, happened an inch lower.

“It’s nothing personal,” Geralt continues. “I don’t jump into the bed of every person who admires my cat eyes, silk hair and amazing physique.”

Regis flinches. He starts to suspect Geralt is drunk, but he can’t smell alcohol on him.

Geralt snickers, his eyes still closed, his forehead smooth to not aggravate the wound.

“So you coming here is for purely aesthetic reasons,” Regis surmises. “May I ask what exactly inflicted this wound?”

“Not sure, some green-eyed monster.”

Regis shakes his head. He has no idea what game Geralt is playing.

“I knew I should have used a thicker needle,” Regis murmurs. 

After a few minutes, he’s done with the stitches and cuts the excess thread with a scalpel.

Geralt sighs and looks at him again with his left eye.

“I’d have all my wounds stitched if there was someone to do it for me. More than once I woke up in a ditch, wounds from the latest fight already healed with ragged edges. I had my throat almost ripped by a striga, there’s no sign of it now because it was dressed by Foltest’s healers shortly after and then in Ellander.”

Regis hums and gently washes the wound with a cloth dipped in another herbal concoction, one that would help develop some new blood vessels, so the edges wouldn't go necrotic. What was a flap of skin, now is two lines of neat stitches that most likely would leave only a faint scar, invisible for an untrained eye.

“And it’s a good excuse to see you,” Geralt says after a short while, probing at the stitches with careful fingers.

Regis stares at him with wide eyes. Geralt looks back at him, a silent thanks in his eyes and the slight curve of a smile. There’s gratefulness, and maybe something else.

Regis can’t tear his eyes away from the golden irises. He doesn’t even notice when they both lean towards each other, Geralt's hand moving from his forehead to the back of Regis' neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I tag jealous Regis and the ending of this thing going towards Geralt/Regis slash? Sorry if it's not your cup of tea.


	5. Don't move; The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post "Blood and Wine". Yen has to clean up the mess she caused on Geralt's back. Angsty angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably every fandom has a character that’s a delight to be whumped.  
Similar situation to the previous ficlet, someone else to patch Geralt up → different tone.  
Since I noticed the more happy I am with something, the less reaction I get, I'll say THIS ONE IS AWFUL, I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THIS TRASH!

“Don’t move.”

Geralt huffs.

“Really, you didn’t complain this much when you collided with a shelf full of glass,” Yen chides and yanks a piece of a jar out of his back.

Geralt buries his face in the pillow. “Why can’t you just… magic it all out?”

“Some of those substances contain traces of magic. They burned you enough, we don’t know what would happen if I cast any spell on them. We have to do this traditional way.”

Geralt doesn’t reply.

“Nice home you got here,” Yen murmurs. He feels her breath on the bare skin of his back. She yanks another piece of glass out.

“You can stay the night, I have a guest bedroom,” Geralt suggests.

She pauses.

“That’s generous of you, but no, thank you. My room in the Pheasantry is perfectly comfortable.”

Geralt doesn’t insist. He hisses when she grabs a piece that’s lodged deeper than most of the shards.

“Some might think witchers are better accustomed to pain.”

“Adrenaline wore off,” Geralt grumbles. “And it’s not really my fault I have the back full of glass, is it?”

He can imagine her pursing her lips.

“Fair enough,” she whispers so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it.

She did ask him to find her an old elven lab, north of Arthach ruins. He did agree. For all the sorceresses’ bragging about their magic being superior to witchers’, he was the one to find the trap just before they set it off, and she was the one who made the situation worse by a wrong counter spell. Geralt hated fighting barghests and he made sure she knew that. She stayed out of the way during the fight, at least.

She took her time getting what she wanted from the lab before teleporting them to Corvo Bianco.

And here they are, Geralt lying on his bed, shirtless, and Yen meticulously removing every little piece of glass that got embedded in Geralt’s back at the very beginning of the fight.

“If you want to know, I didn’t come here only to ask you for a favour,” she says after a moment of silence, filled with his hissing and the sound of glass hitting the bottom of a bowl. “I also wanted to see how you were. You isolated yourself.”

He wants to shrug, but it would disturb the shards. He grunts instead.

“I talked to Triss some time ago, she told me… some things.”

Geralt turns his head to watch her with a corner of one eye. She’s focused on her task, brow furrowed, pincers in one delicate hand, a wet rag in the other to wipe away the blood.

“About the time you returned,” she continues. “About the state you were found in. About what she did, or rather didn’t do.”

He turns his head again, away from her, his chin propped on the pillow.

“Me half-dead, with amnesia, Triss playing a dear friend who wouldn’t get my memory back even though she could, her using me, talking shit about commitment and rings, waiting months before telling me the truth about you and Ciri, and me running around like a headless chicken, looking for the lost pieces of myself? And then you, not listening to me at all after I’ve spent half a year searching for you.”

She flinches and takes out another shard with the movement. He doesn't even hiss this time.

“I’m done being used,” he mumbles. “I’ve spent over a year having to believe everything I was told about myself. Having to believe the empty promises of help. In the end I realised I was left alone with all this, having to figure it out myself.”

“I…” Yen starts, her voice thick.

“You used me, too,” he says, still not looking at her. He’s not in the mood for being delicate with her. “And Triss, and Keira. Even Dandelion and Zoltan, I think. I’m done. Don’t ask me why I isolate myself, because you're a part of it.”

“Well,” she breathes. “I can see your point in all this. It certainly wasn't easy for you.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s almost surprised she doesn’t fight him.

“I think I’m done here,” she says after a minute. Geralt shifts.

“Aye, they’re all gone,” he confirms.

“I’ll wash it and put some dressings on the cuts, they don’t heal as fast as they should.”

Geralt only nods into the pillow.

He feels a soft cloth running down his back, washing away the traces of blood. Yen dries it, puts some salve on the cuts and then instructs him to sit up, so she can wrap his chest in bandages. He allows her to.

She ties the knot in front of him, hugging him from behind. Then, to his surprise, she melts into his back, clasps her hands on his chest, lays her head on his shoulder and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

He takes a breath to reply, but she doesn’t let him:

“I know it’s not enough for all the anguish I've caused you. I’m just… sorry.”

He hangs his head and breathes in through his nose, smelling the lilac and gooseberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But seriously, comments feed the writer.


	6. Asphyxiation; The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt runs through thin air. Ambiguous ending!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the “Through space and time” quest (or whatever it was called, I never remember) left me traumatized after the first run. The ending is very open - it depends on your amount of optimism. Can be read as a Major Character Death.

The fumes aren’t poisonous, he realises when he runs through the short stretch of the alien red plants. Taking Golden Oriole, coughing a little and pushing forward won't work. The fumes force the air out of his lungs, it’s nothing he can prepare himself for.

He hates Avallac’h. The elf was a bastard years ago and it didn’t change, and it doesn’t matter he helped Ciri and she trusts him now. He hates him for leaving him here, for dragging him through these weird, uninhabitable worlds, full of unknown monsters and little red plants that make it hard to breathe.

He wonders what lives here as he breathes as deeply as possible, filling his blood with precious oxygen. The air is thin even above the fumes. He thinks he found the way to the portal, but it requires quite a long run across the plants.

He finds a place of power. He draws from it and feels slightly better.

It doesn’t last long. A short run from one rocky edge to the other through the fumes and his strength is depleted, again.

A short respite, then he reaches another edge. A jump down it and it will be the longest stretch across the plants.

He wants to sit down, but knows it’s a bad idea, thanks to a vague memory of what he read a long time ago, about people who climb mountains for sport. Kaer Morhen is pretty high above sea level, the air is thinner there than in, let’s say, Novigrad, but it is something he’s used to. The old masters of the Wolf School sent the adepts up the mountains around their valley every day. Geralt knows there are peaks higher than their Blue Mountains, and that people like to challenge themselves to their limits by climbing as high as they can. He doesn't really understand the appeal, but he’s read memoirs of one of them. He’s pretty sure this, what he feels now, was what the man felt at the peak. The advice was, don’t sit down. Cherish the moment, look around to admire the views and then just descend, as fast as possible.

Here, there is nothing to admire. No peak to descend from in hope to getting more oxygen. Just a hundred meters of running without air.

The fiery ring of the portal buzzes in the distance.

Geralt takes a few deep breaths, then jumps down into the plants, seeing only another edge, the edge that will make him safer, that will bring the precious air, as thin as it is.

He trips and falls.

He doesn’t see the edge anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the writer!


	7. Numb; The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt runs through the frozen world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be a continuation of the previous ficlet ;).

He. Hates. Portals.

He hates a lot of things, to be honest. Some of them, he can live with, but portals he despises with his whole self.

He also hates Avallac’h. Why did he even have to go with him on this journey through worlds? Getting Margarita out of prison he can understand. Saving Philippa from Dijkstra, sure. Running errands with Ciri was a pleasure, he loves spending time with her. But this? Getting fried and almost eaten on a desert, then running on thin air across the plants that want to kill you, then a quick dive in some underwater world - thank the gods the portal was open - and now this.

It’s cold.

He’s wet, tired and irritated beyond anything he’s ever experienced in his long life; one more thing to piss him off and he’ll go berserk. The cave the portal spat him out in is isolated from the wind, but the cold is biting and he can feel his armour freeze on him. It doesn’t bode well, and after the battle of Kaer Morhen he despises the cold about as much as Lambert does. This cold won’t be a merciful gust of wind knocking him out on the spot, no, here he’ll freeze slowly.

He finds the icy wall closing the cave and melts it with Igni. The wind and snow push him back into the cave.

“Damn it,” he mutters, casts Quen and runs into the blizzard.

He finds a nook in the rocky wall about a hundred meters from the cave. It’s shielded from the wind. A small stack of wood lies under the wall, and a large X is drawn in chalk on the rock.

Geralt feels inclined to start a bonfire, but something tells him stopping here is a bad idea. He noticed some buildings not far ahead and he knows he should go there. The place seems deserted, no smoke coming from the chimneys in the snow-covered village, but maybe some house would be a better cover than this place.

His armour is already covered in a thin layer of ice, his hair feel tight on his head, probably frozen, too. He needs to find some safer place, start a fire, get warmer and eat something.

He casts Quen again and runs to another hideout. He takes some time there to catch his breath, and find a path into the village; then he casts Quen again and slides straight into the closest home.

Inside the abandoned building, it’s about as cold as outside, although he’s shielded from the biting wind now. He goes downstairs and finds another fireplace, some wood, and skeletons of three people, huddled together, long dead.

The wood looks fresh, but it’s dried and ready to be burned. There are barely any footprints around the fireplace, so Geralt can only guess who left it here. He decides to push on, go as far as he can looking for the next portal.

He leaves the wood untouched and heads towards the exit.

To his surprise, he notices a lighthouse and a fire burning on top of it. He smirks. With the village deserted, all people who lived here probably frozen to death, there’s only one kind-of-friendly person who could have set such a guidance for him.

Geralt rubs his half-frozen fingers, casts another Quen and runs through the blizzard to the next house.

Another fireplace, no wood this time. Some more skeletons.

He’s starting to feel numb and he’s not sure whether it’s because of the cold, or he’s just tired, the feeling of hopelessness and death permeating him to the core. He doesn’t dare to touch his hair in case it breaks off. Moving around broke the ice on his armour, but he doesn’t forget the fact he’s still wet. His undershirt gets uncomfortable, as his body warmth isn’t enough to dry it, no matter how much of a furnace he is, as the women he slept with claimed.

Running from house to house, he gets closer to the lighthouse. When he reaches a breach in the village walls, there’s the last stretch of open air to his destination, no cover on the way. Geralt really hopes he doesn’t have to climb to the top, but then he notices a doorway on the ground level.

But then he looks at the two hundred meters he has to run without cover. The ice starts building on his armour again. His breath turns to mist before it even leaves his mouth properly. His eyelashes are frozen over. He barely feels his fingers. He regrets not starting a fire before, when he had a chance and a stack of wood.

He takes a deep breath and runs.

* * *

All ends well. Ge’els agrees to help them - or rather not help Eredin. Avallac’h returns. They have some sort of a plan. They agree to meet on the ship to Skellige.

When they’re back inside the Chameleon, Geralt sways. There are pinpricks all over his body, he has to lock his knees to not fall, he doesn’t really feel his hands anymore, his vision is blurry with black spots. He hears someone calling his name, Ciri? She sounds panicked, he feels hands on him, his back and shoulders.

There are other voices, Dandelion? Someone leads him towards the bed, practiced hands unbuckle his sword harness. He sits on the bed. He feels someone’s hands, so warm and soft, on his face.

“He’s cold,” Ciri says.

“Is it always so bad?” he tries to ask, but he doesn’t know if she understands him.

“What?”

“The worlds,” he mumbles and feels himself being laid down on the bed, his armour, gloves and boots removed. He shivers. “Thin air, water, then ice?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

He doesn’t have the strength to reply, he just shivers there, barely feeling his limbs. He’s so cold he’s afraid he might freeze here to death, despite the room being warm.

His still wet undershirt is removed, too. Someone says something about his trousers, but then he gasps at the pain in his chest and doesn’t know anything anymore.

* * *

He wakes up curled up on the bed, covered in what seems to be six blankets, with hot water bottles placed conveniently by his feet, hands, stomach and neck. He doesn’t shiver anymore, he just registers he’s naked except for a pair of briefs.

He opens his eyes and sees Ciri, staring at him with big, scared eyes. She kneels by the bed, her arms crossed on the covers, her chin propped on them.

“I know we need Avallac’h,” she starts, her voice thick. “I know he helped me run away from Wild Hunt. But seeing what he put you through… I want to kill him.”

Geralt smiles.

“Anything for you,” he mumbles.

A lone tear runs down Ciri’s left cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much shit is happening to Geralt during the games, it's a gold mine for ideas for hurt/comfort and missing scenes.


End file.
